


Eating the shark

by shiplizard



Category: Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Dumb gender essentialism, Eating shark, Frail men, Gen, Hortense Hornblower, Robert Wellesley, Strapping seagels, Willa Bush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-13 05:48:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2139354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiplizard/pseuds/shiplizard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A vignette from an alternate universe version of 'The Happy Return'-- in a universe where women ply the sea, men wait at home and fret, and Captain Hortense Hornblower is haunted by the fate of the mad spaniard Dona Julia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eating the shark

There was a fine blue sky over _The Lad'o'Riding_ as he skimmed along, making a course nearly due Southeast toward Cape Horn. Lieutenant Bush, the officer of the noon watch, had come aft to watch the sharking party-- a dozen off-duty hands, clustered around three long lines that lead out to three tackles suspended from booms that reached some twenty feet out from the windward bow, far enough to clear the _Lad_ 's tumble-home sides and trail uninterrupted down to the water They had seen something that had set them chattering; the noise had carried forward with the wind and caught Bush's attention.

As Bush watched, one of the sharking lines went taut and four seagels threw themselves on it, hauling hard; four more seized up boarding pikes and stood ready. A dark, thrashing shadow could be seen under the ship's wake; when it burst through the surface, Bush could see what had caused the commotion. 

It was a goodly sized shark; seven feet along the body by Bush's judgement, another four or five feet of curving, scythelike tail. Not a little channel creature, this, no-- it was likely closer a thousand pounds than five hundred. It was fighting gamely to dislodge the hook in its stomach, making the boom creak with its weight as it jolted and jerked on the line. The sailors at the tackles were hauling it in with concerted effort-- one, two, three, HEAVE, and it came up a foot; one two three HEAVE and it came up another, and onlookers were gathering to cheer and jeer, and to put their weight to the boom. 

Within two minutes, the beast was above the railing and being swung in to fight above the deck, and a sailor with a pike waved the others away and stood ready for it to be lowered close. 

Risky to try to take a shark that size alone, but the hands would have their vanity-- and the sailor, an old hand at sharking, needed only one hard blow to drive the pike through the shark's brain, to the cheers of her fellows. 

A young gel rushed in with a clasp knife to begin gutting the thing, and was cuffed about the ear by an older sailor. "This is sweet shark, you dim lamp-!” the older woman barked. “Handsomely there, you're not to mangle it up for stew!" 

"Sweet shark?" asked a voice behind Bush, puzzled, and Bush turned in surprise, for the voice was male. There was a man behind her, modest in a linen shirt and buff jacket; a handsome man with sea blue eyes and a regal demeanor only slightly diminished by the silky, curling brown hair that streamed in the wind and whipped him in the eyes from time to time.

It was Lord Robert, one of two male passengers-- He and his manservant Hephaestus had come aboard in Panama, over the Captain's strenuous objections, and had been turning up underfoot ever since. 

Bush only just refrained from swearing. She had enough land manners not to blaspheme in front of the gentler sex, and would not have willingly shown Lord Robert that she was surprised in any case. The man had been drawn by the commotion, too, away from his hammock chair on the quarterdeck, and was watching the proceedings with the shark with a mixture of curiosity and queasiness. 

The thing, still twitching after death-- and still capable of biting, Bush knew-- was being laid out and marked for butchery with much more care than shark was usually afforded. Lord Robert would not know, of course-- likely on an Indiaman, this procedure was kept away from the delicate sensibilities of men. 

Despite the inconvenience, Bush found herself drawn into conversation with this interloper-- because like many of the crew, she'd come to like Lord Robert, who she considered quite a sensible creature, for a man. 

"That's right, your Lordship-- this isn't one of your common blue or white sharks. You have seen us catch those a dozen times." 

"And tasted them, when you were kind enough to offer it," Lord Robert said ruefully; the wardroom, fond of this pretty young man, had yielded reluctantly to his curiosity and shared a small portion of shark stew. Lord Robert had bravely eaten down his small bowl of stew with a determination that endeared him to these weatherbeaten officers, all of whom knew that it was no pleasure. 

Shark was certainly one of the vilest catches that the ocean could offer up-- its fins made an inoffensive, pleasant addition to peas porridge, but its flesh was bitter, and would spoil if allowed to sit for any amount of time. It could only be tolerated if it was immediately gutted and its poisonous innards discarded. Then it was hosed down with the washdeck pump, and the meat was haggled to bits and brined in a mixture of salt water, vinegar, and rum. After all this, it made a stew that was just edible. 

Womankind on land might quail at the idea, but the consensus of modern physicians was that a shark's affinity for blood made it uniquely suited to supplement the diet during a woman's bloody week, aboard a ship where cargo space was precious and the traditional second helping of red beef could not always be supplied. 

"Well, this shark is a different sort-- you see its tail? It is one of the breeds of shark with sweet meat-- very inoffensive. It makes a very pretty steak, though I am not sure it does as much good. But the Captain prefers it." Bush, like many seasoned sea veterans, believed strongly that the unpleasant taste of shark flesh was an indication of its medical benefit, and might have sighed a little at today's catch in disapproval under any other circumstances. But her concern for her captain overrode her superstitions and preferences.

Lord Robert understood at once. "Then perhaps it will lift her mood. If she is, ah-" he blushed delicately, with gentlemanlike discretion. "Eating shark." 

Bush's brothers, grown up together in a small cottage alongside her, had long lost their horror at the idea that a woman bled one weak out of a month, and would fail utterly to be scandalized at the casual mention of a woman 'eating beef' or 'eating shark' or 'drilling in redcoat' or any other similar vulgarity. Lord Robert had sisters himself-- but probably the Marquess of Wellesley had never had to share one small room with her brother or expose him to the rough realities of womanhood. He was an innocent and not suited for such knowledge. It was this natural male disinclination for gore that made mankind unsuited to military life, had led Hornblower to so strongly object to a man aboard her ship-- but Lord Robert had conducted himself with an almost feminine steadfastness, and Bush's own objections had given way enough that she spoke freely now.

"She isn't, but she is due a steak anyway, if she wants it. It is the captain's prerogative. Ah, there goes Polwheal-- good woman, she'll get the captain's share before it can vanish." Bush drummed her knuckles thoughtfully against the railing, watching the steward bicker for a share large enough to guarantee that the captain could not quite eat all of it, and some would remain for Polwheal after. 

"You're worried about Captain Hornblower too, aren't you?" Lord Robert asked softly. "You're quite fond of her." 

"Fond?" Bush pondered this tender notion with skepticism. She was a practical, stolid officer, unaware of any streak of romanticism in herself. She would not have used the word 'fond'-- nor, indeed, the word 'love', although an observer who had watched her years of devotion to her admired captain might have done so. "I like her. Certainly I do, your Lordship. She's not strong-- she's like Nelson, you see? But she's so devilishly clever. You can't imagine how clever. " 

"I might," the man countered politely, and Bush nodded at once. 

"Well, you are very clever yourself. But I can't-- us aboard who are not thinkers, we cannot reach her level. She is always surprising me. I have known her five years, served with her three, and I am always surprised." She was still drumming her knuckles on the rail, and to stop herself she clasped her hands behind her back. "I wish you would talk to her. She hasn't been the same since she came back from that Spaniard-- perhaps you could take her out of herself, a little." 

She lowered her voice as she said this, as unlikely as it was that a sailor would dare to eavesdrop on her superior officer and a gentleman, as unlikely as they were to be heard among the general commotion, and Lord Robert's sideways glance showed that he understood her meaning. They parted after that, Lord Robert retreating to the quarterdeck rather than watch the final preparations of the catch, the skinning and the finning that seemed so cruel to man's tenderhearted nature. Bush watched a while longer, and then went to the binnacle to once again map their progress toward the equator.

 

Polwheal was making her way for'ard as well-- to the cabin where the object of this earlier discussion was in a fitful sleep, snatching at an hour of rest that eluded her as she tossed on her cot. 

Polwheal, coming in to tell her the news about dinner, turned away uneasily-- but not before she heard her captain mutter, as in the throes of a nightmare-- " _La Suprema! La Suprema-!_ "


End file.
